New Blog

As of June 2007, all new blog entries can be found at www.nasri-atallah.com.

Al-Hayat Article

Here is an editorial from Al-Hayat about the "A Lost Summer: Postcards from Lebanon" book that I mentioned in my last post.

A Sweet Dream by Jihad el-Khazen (Al-Hayat - 27/02/07)

'A Lost Summer: Postcards from Lebanon' is a book that surprised me twice; first, because it was professionally and expertly written and, second, because most of it was issued by a group of youths - boys and girls - who are the children of friends I know in London and Beirut.

The pages, or the postcards, range from pain and laughter over the disaster to fear when the phone goes dead after someone says 'Allo? Hi, Mom? Only to return with news of the latest callous bombing of a civilian target.

Shaden Itani said: "They bombed all Sunday night, so much that on Monday morning I could no longer see the sun. do you imagine, Beirut the city where the sun is always shining in summer; well on Monday July 17th Beirut was grey, dull, sad. I could only see clouds, no sun."

Nasri Attallah talked about the collective amnesia, a willingness to erase what is happening; while Nadine Touma talks the psychological disorder and 'phobia' of trucks, or 'Truckophobia', and how people were terrified that Israeli planes would fire on any passing trucks. She explains these phobias in a humorous way, where she begins by screaming: "Ya mama camion", "addressing the truck driver by a go go go sign with the right hand"… Once the truck is far enough and the Lebanese citizen is safe from danger, they say: "el hamdellah, zamatna. We made it."

Some of the postcards are very smart and funny, and Alfred Tarazi said: "I've realized why Israel is attacking us again. It is because Italy won the World Cup, just like in 1982" [the Israeli invasion], he said with a big smile on his face.

However, Nadine Touma, in the next postcard, cries as she remembers her days with a fisherman, and the young kids who guided her "through their streets, invited me to their homes, fed me at their tables, told me Taales Of love stories between fishermen and waiting mermaids. I call them and can't get through. I can't stop the tears rolling, rolling, rolling…I think I have recognized the dead face of a little girl I know. I am weeping."

Souraya Ali says. "it's funny how old habits die hard', and she gathered three travel bags: one containing her passport, credit cards and so on, and the second containing some clothes that would last her three days. The third bag contained cameras and an iPod for music, but in the end, she added an emergency last bag full of memories.

There's some challenge in Nour al Assaad's cards, and they're in Arabic: "You know what? After everything that's happened, for the first time the whole world is hearing our names - names that even we hadn't heard before. You had to see how they were pronouncing 'Deir Amiss' a little while ago, or 'Debaal' or 'Rashknanai', like someone waiting for someone to come and rescue him from a scary monster."

A smile remains between these pages: a Lebanese man goes to the dentist and says to him that he should remove the bridge on his teeth out of fear that the Israelis will come to knock it down.

Wadiaa Khoury says: "When I was 2 years old, until I was 5, the worst bombing and crimes took place. When my siblings were about the same age, the same acts took place. For a while I thought that war is like chickenpox: it happens to everyone at a certain early age."

Rasha Kahil says in her card that 'what frightens me the most is that this is what people must've thought back in 1975- it'll be one this week, let's just wait and see. And before they knew it, fifteen years had passed…. What I fear more than coming back to a disfigured home is coming back fifteen years later. Like my parents did once before."

I admit that I held back tears when I read this last postcard, as well as other ones that brought together sadness, nostalgia and perseverance.

Marilyn Chbeir insists that Lebanon will survive and return stronger than before, and Ibrahim Debbas loves Beirut; a city that witnessed the rise and fall of empires, and it remained. Fearlie Wilson says that Lebanon gave her more than she'd requested; a home and a sense of belonging and countless fond memories. Tony Bourdain says he wants to return because Beirut is a work that has yet to be completed, and that he wants to tell the world what is possible in Beirut. And then there is Mirvat al-Sibai, who looks at the nights of Jubayl with pistachio nuts in the palm of her hand, the stars above, and the smell of the sea around her.

Then there is Mai Ghoussoub, our dear departed friend who will always remain with us. I found a postcard from her in this book where she talks about Hassan, whose home was shelled. The bombs made holes in his son's bedroom, but despite this, he wouldn't leave the house. When she asked him why he was staying in this demolished house when he can rent a flat somewhere else, he said: "I want to be home, I'm used to it here. This is my neighborhood."

Mai Ghoussoub and Dar al-Saqi return on the last page since this publishing house supported the publication of this book, and I received an invitation to attend the publication ceremony. Among the boys and girls there, I found Graphic Designer Anna Ogden Smith, Editor Maureen Ali, and the Wehbe Insurance Company that paid for its publication.

Personally, I took a moment when I saw the names of the children of friends who sent these postcards, and the book is divided between the written postcards and the pictures provided by the boys and girls, which sometimes express the situation better than words. We do hear that a picture is worth a thousand words.

These postcards and pictures of these young boys and girls are our hope, and the preface talks about how the Lebanese emerged from underneath the rubble of war following the Taif agreement and rebuilt their country. Hopes were high as high as the tall buildings that were erected. But the summer war came so that the Lebanese could wake up from this sweet dream and live the nightmare of 33 days of Israeli shelling, destruction and murder.

It was clear in every page of the book that the Lebanese are capable of facing the challenge and rising again. Perhaps the 'boys and girls' exhibit wisdom; more wisdom than we, the fathers and mothers, exhibited. They will lead Lebanon to a haven.

A Lost Summer

Thanks to Google's wonderful technology, my blog and I have been having a love-hate relationship of late. This is the first time I actually manage to log into my account in a month, and the elation is barely containable.

Just a piece of quick news, a quote from this blog has been used in a recent book called "A Lost Summer: Postcards from Lebanon" published by Saqi Books. The proceeds from the book go to charitable causes in Lebanon through the great team of people at Lebanon United. It's a great book and should be on all your coffee tables. Plus its purrrrty.

Baring any unforeseen punch-ups between my computer and I, there should be a very interesting post on here tomorrow.

Amnesia

I have just returned from a decidedly underwhelming week in Beirut. I had initially thought that spending a few days in the city that never sleeps (except during working hours) would do me a world of good. But the Beirut I saw at the turn of the year is shifting ever rapidly away from the city that I know and love.

Before you accuse me of expatriate snobbism, let me tell you that I have a carefully thought out argumentation of my new-found aversion for Lebanon’s capital city. Anyone who knows me knows that I suffer from a severe case of selective patriotism, but I fear that my current disillusionment will last substantially longer.

I have found Beirut in 2007 to be a city fuelled by vodka, electronically remixed 80s hits and tribal politics. I couldn’t imagine a more nauseating mix if I wanted to. It has become a city full of alcohol-fuelled superficial hedonism. I know this is not a brand spanking new phenomenon in Lebanon, but the heights which it has reached are frankly alarming. Most women dress like street-walkers in a desperate bid to grab the attention of the dwindling male population. The men, their egos artificially inflated by aforementioned attention-seeking, have become more arrogant and futile than ever. Puzzled expatriates crack jokes about the situation knowing full well that they can retreat to their real lives in Dubai, Qatar, London and Paris after a week of heavy partying. Even though the demographic I am talking about may not represent the city or the country as a whole, it is still a worrying social dynamic.

I found it virtually impossible to sustain a conversation with anyone in Beirut during my last visit. Even the most habitually verbose of friends is rendered a blathering fool by the numbing repetitiveness and futility of life in the city once called the Paris of the East. And herein lies my problem with the city. If you want to compare yourself with such gleaming examples of culture, stability and history as Paris or Switzerland, you better have more substance than an insatiable appetite for vodka and clubbing.

It has long been an irate observation of mine that the over-hyped and gloriously extolled Downtown area of Beirut, now the home to the winter camping trip of boy scouts of various colors and creeds, does not have a single library or bookshop. You can eat as much as you want. You can buy as many shoes as your heart desires. But you’d be hard-pressed to even locate a copy of the latest airport thriller, let alone any classic work of any importance. Maybe if there were a few books in the Downtown, people on both sides of the divide would be less prone to follow the host of tribal leaders they seem to have pledged a life-long and blind obedience.

A friend of mine pointed out that Lebanon is going through a particularly hard time at the moment, and that people have more pressing worries than culture. I was quick to reply that truly great civilizations, those that the world stands up to acclaim, produce their most poignant plays, music and literature in their most difficult times. Beirut’s youth drinks away their talent amidst a flood of strobe lights and trance, and with the fading sparklers of the champagne bottles die the hopes of a generation. The frenzied amnesia of a bruised country continues.

Helsinki Complaints Choir

Hilarious.

Bond Trivia

So, as a die-hard Bond fan, I was worried about Mr Craig's performance in Casino Royale. I have just watched said movie, and can safely say it is excellent. Start of a new Bond era. More childish escapism for me. Yay.

Here is some Bond trivia from the novels and films.

FOOD :

Coffee: Two large cups in the morning, black and without sugar, of very strong coffee, from De Bry in New Oxford Street, brewed in an American Chemex .

Breakfast: A single egg (very fresh, speckled brown egg from a French Marans hen) in a dark blue egg cup with a gold ring round the top, boiled exactly for three and a third minutes with two slices of whole wheat toast, a large pat of deep yellow Jersey butter and three squat glass jars containing Tiptree "Little Scarlet" strawberry jam; Cooper's Vintage Oxford marmalade and Norwegian Heather Honey from Fortnum's.

Scrambled Eggs: This is how 007 likes them;
Ingredients for four people: 12 fresh eggs, salt and pepper, 5-6oz fresh butter
Break the eggs into a bowl. Beat thoroughly with a fork and season well.
Melt 40z butter in a small copper (or heavy bottomed) saucepan.
When melted, pour in eggs and cook over a very low heat, whisking continuously with a small egg whisk
While eggs are slightly more moist than you would wish for eating, remove pan from heat, add rest of butter, and continue whisking for a minute, adding finely chopped chives of fine herbs as you do so.
Serve on hot buttered toast in individual copper dishes with Taittinger and low music.

Cutlery: The coffee pot and the silver are Queen Anne and the china is Minton.
(From Russia With Love, written in 1956).

DRINKS :

Martini: The trademark Bond's choice of 'vodka martini, medium dry, shaken not stirred' prepared in the following way
Add 4 measures Vodka
Add 1 measure dry Vermouth
Shake with ice. Do not stir.
Add 1 green olive
Garnish with a thin slice of lemon peel

Another cocktail designed by Bond in Casino Royale and named after the girl with him is 'Vesper' prepared by adding 3 measures Gordon's Gin,1 measure Vodka, 1 measure blond Lillet vermouth,shaken very well until it's ice cold and garnished with a slice of lemon peel.

Champagne: Dom Perignon ( preferably'53) and Bollinger. Feels drinking Dom Perignon '53 above a temperature of 38 degrees farenheit is as bad as listening to the Beatles without earmuffs. (in Goldfinger)

Dress: Prefers suits by the Italian Brioni.

Cigarettes : Custom made Mooreland’s with 3 golden stripes.

Vehicle: In the novels he prefers driving a 1933 4.5 litre Bentley. In the movies, its mostly a Aston Martin DB5. (Its license number is BMT 216A, except in Goldeneye where it is BMT 214A)

Guns: .25 Beretta, Walther PPK and now Walther P99.(Also the Heckler & Koch P7). Click here for more info.

Writes with a Mont Blanc pen.

Sinatra and Martin Medley.

Pure genius. They don't make 'em like this anymore.

Dusk in London.

Here is a view from my window. Un-photoshopped.

Suggest a career.

I have recently left my job and am now in the process of "finding myself". I'm not quite sure where I'll turn up, but my bet is on "behind the sofa with the loose change". Anyway, below is a list of new careers friends have suggested I should look into:
- Lion tamer
- Gigolo
- Weight Watchers Sumo Wrestler
- Tibetan Yak Herder
- Dog sitter
- Mercenary
- Contact Lens Designer for Pets
- Dinosaur chiropodist
- Chauffeur
- Sailor
- President
- Beauty Therapist
- Agony Uncle
- Tall hairy dude
- Maid
- Strawberry reviewer
- Pope
- Weaponsmith
- Talk-show host
- Crash test dummy
- Christmas tree decorator
- Cultural Attaché.

Friends. Useful as always.

Blood on the Sand

Here is one of the pictures I took at a bullfight in Torremalinos last week. I absolutely loved the spectacle and all the rituals associated with the event. I'll write something about it soon. Must read "Death in the Afternoon" by Hemingway.

Sinatra and Jobim

Here's a video of the Chairman of the Board and the inventor of Bossa Nova. This is how music should be. Now, switch off MTVbase and watch this.

WASP Tea Partay

Closing Remarks of PM Saniora's address to the Rome conference

Excellencies, ladies and gentlemen
We owe our people an honorable way out of this war. We owe our people, with your support, a solution that will not allow any further destruction and will help us rebuild our nation and strengthen our democracy.

In conclusion, let me recall what the Roman historian Tacitus said in this great city two thousand years ago and which describes well what Israel is doing to Lebanon and the region today: and I quote:

“They create a desolation and call it peace “

Our choice is clear.
We have chosen life.
We did not come to Rome only to ask for relief and support.
We came to be heard and to cry out loud our nation's right to life.
We shall not compromise our just cause or our national interests.
We are here to bear witness to our unity as a people.
We have overcome wars and destruction over the ages.
We shall rise up again.
Let that be your choice too.
Do not allow desolation to prevail.

More than a country, a message.

"Give me the money that has been spent in war and I will clothe every man, woman, and child in an attire of which kings and queens will be proud. I will build a schoolhouse in every valley over the whole earth. I will crown every hillside with a place of worship consecrated to peace." Charles Sumner

Lebanon has been bleeding for 19 days. I have wanted to write something about what is unfolding, but have refused to. I have refused to admit to myself that this is all happening again. I have refused to believe that all our efforts at unity and reconstruction are being decimated from the skies. I have refused to believe that hundreds of thousands of my fellow countrymen would be displaced again, in the most brutal of ways. I have refused to believe that tens of thousands would leave the country again, after working abroad for years in the only hope that they would return to our Lebanon's rich soil. I refuse to believe that tears of blood will run down Lebanon's sapphire coasts yet again.

However, today, I cannot refuse anymore. The suffering is real, and getting worse. The wounds are deep. The deaths are mounting. José Narosky once said that in war, there are no unwounded soldiers. I think the same is true for civilians. Whether you are under bombardment, or in the relative calm of the mountains, you are scared and scarred. I get messages from friends huddled in nightclubs in Faraya, with a seemingly grotesque insouciance. But I don’t judge them; I know it’s a way of coping with tragic loss. Collective amnesia, a willingness to erase what is happening. A wish, much like mine from the comfort and safety of London, to believe that this is a bad dream, and that we'll wake up to our shiny new Lebanon tomorrow.

I feel a mixed sense of egoism and perverted relief that my family is safe. The respite is brief though, as I have all my friends in my thoughts every moment of the day. I worry about the local grocer, I worry about our cleaning lady, I worry about all the people you'd cross on a daily basis and give a village-like wave to from your car window as you drove past. I watched 'foreign nationals' being evacuated like cattle from the ports. Mothers crying because there was no place left on the ships, and their sons and daughters were scared. Mothers being maternal, instinctively wanting to protect their children from the horrors they had to endure 10, 20, 30 years ago.

The outpouring of concern and support I have received from friends in London and around Europe has been moving in the extreme. I feel guilty receiving it though; it is the people in Lebanon who need it. I also feel guilty for watching the conflict from the safety of a European capital. In some twisted way, I wish I was there under the bombs. Living with the constant, impending threat of warplanes. With the rationing of gasoline, electricity, water and most importantly hope. I feel less Lebanese for not sharing in my nation's plight.

My first taste of Lebanese history was provided to me by a book I received for my ninth birthday. It was a slim volume called 'L'Histoire Illustrée du Liban' by Larousse, which every Lebanese kid had. I remember browsing through it and coming up to my parents a few hours later asking why Lebanon had always either been occupied or at war. I'm not sure I understand to this day quite why our nation and indeed our region is beset with such a lamentable destiny. Over thousands of years Lebanon has been destroyed, and it has been rebuilt by the strength of its people. Even though we are a nation weary, this time will be no different.

Nasri Atallah

Mon Pays de Nadia Tueni

MON PAYS

Mon pays longiligne a des bras de prophète.
Mon pays que limitent la haine et le soleil.
Mon pays où la mer a des pièges d'orfèvre,
que l'on dit villes sous marines,
que l'on dit miracle ou jardin.
Mon pays où la vie est un pays lointain.
Mon pays est mémoire
d'hommes durs comme la faim,
et de guerres plus anciennes
que les eaux du jourdain.
Mon pays qui s'éveille,
projette son visage sur le blanc de la terre.
Mon pays vulnérable est un oiseau de lune.
Mon pays empalé sur le fer des consciences.
Mon pays en couleurs est un grand cerf-volant.
Mon pays où le vent est un noeud de vipères.
Mon pays qui d'un trait refait le paysage.

Mon pays qui s'habille d'uniformes et de gestes,
qui accuse une fleur coupable d'être fleur.
Mon pays au regard de prière et de doute.
Mon pays où l'on meurt quand on a de temps.
Mon pays où la loi est un soldat de plomb.
Mon pays qui me dit : "prenez-moi au sérieux",
mais qui tourne et s'affole comme un pigeon blessé.
Mon pays difficile tel un très long poème.
Mon pays bien plus doux que l'épaule qu'on aime.
Mon pays qui ressemble à un livre d'enfant,
où le canon dérange la belle-au-bois-dormant.

Mon pays de montagnes que chaque bruit étonne.
Mon pays qui ne dure que parce qu'il faut durer.
Mon pays pays tu ressembles aux étoiles filantes,
qui traversent la nuit sans jamais prévenir.
Mon pays mon visage,
la haine et puis l'amour
naissent à la façon dont on se tend la main.
Mon pays que ta pierre soit une éternité.
Mon pays mais ton ciel est un espace vide.

Mon pays que le chois ronge comme une attente.
Mon pays que l'on perd un jour sur le chemin.
Mon pays qui se casse comme un morceau de vague.
Mon pays où l'été est un hiver certain.
Mon pays qui voyage entre rêve et matin.

New Music Video From David "The Hoff" Hasselhoff - "Jump In My Car"

The Hoff is back. And he's scarier than ever.

Useless facts of the day

Jim Morrison, of the 60's rock group The Doors, was the first rock star to be arrested on stage.

Barbie's full name is "Babara Millicent Roberts."

Screech, from "Saved by the Bell," was the only one of the characters who played in all the episodes from the junior high, with Mrs. Bliss, to "Saved by the Bell: The New Class."

Marilyn Monroe had six toes.

Sir Isaac Newton was only 23 years old when he discovered the law of universal graviton.

Phenicien

"Si je rappelle aux miens nos aieux pheniciens,
C'est qu'ils n'etaient alors, au fronton de l'histoire,
Avant de devenir musulmans ou chretiens,
Qu'un meme peuple uni dans une meme gloire."

Charles Corm

La Poesie de Nadia Tueni

Beyrouth

Qu'elle soit courtisane, érudite, ou dévote,
péninsule de bruits, des couleurs, et de l'or,
ville marchande et rose, voguant comme une flotte
qui cherche à l'horizon la tendresse d'un port,
elle est mille fois mort, mille fois revécue.
Beyrouth des cents palais, et Béryte des pierres,
où l'on vient de partout ériger ses statues,
qui font prier les hommes, et font crier les guerres.
Ses femmes aux yeux de plages qui s'allument la nuit,
et ses mendiants semblables à d'anciennes pythies.
A Beyrouth chaque idée habite une maison.
A Beyrouth l'on décharge pensées et caravanes,
flibustiers de l'esprit, prêtresses ou bien sultanes.
Qu'elle soit religieuse, ou qu'elle soit sorcière,
ou qu'elle soit les deux, ou qu'elle soit charnière,
du portail de la mer ou des grilles du levant,
qu'elle soit adorée ou qu'elle soit maudite,
qu'elle soit sanguinaire, ou qu'elle soit d'eau bénite,
qu'elle soit innocente ou qu'elle soit meurtrière,
en étant phénicienne, arabe ou routière,
en étant levantine, aux multiples vertiges,
comme ces fleurs étranges fragiles sur leurs tiges,
Beyrouth est en orient le dernier sanctuaire,
où l'homme peut toujours s'habiller de lumière.




Cédres

Je vous salue,
vous qui êtes,
dans la simplicité d'une racine,
avec la nuit pour chien de garde.
Vos bruits ont la splendeur des mots,
et la fierté des cataclysmes.
Je vous connais,
vous qui êtes,
hospitaliers comme mémoire;
vous portez le deuil des vivants,
car l'envers du temps, c'est le temps.
Je vous épèle,
vous qui êtes,
aussi unique que le Cantique.
Un grand froid vous habille,
et le ciel à portée de branche.
Je vous défie,
vous qui hurlez sur la montagne
usant les syllabes jusqu'au sang,
Aujourd'hui c'est demain d'hier,
sur vos corps un astre couchant.
Je vous aime,
vous qui partez avec pour bannière le vent.
Je vous aime comme on respire,
vous êtes le premier poème.

Where's my goatee?

Friends,

I wish to share the most trivial of existential problems with you on this sunny Tuesday. On Friday night, as I was making myself pretty for a night out on the town, I proceeded to shave my Middle Eastern 3-day beard. However, eagerness and a lack of concentration got the better of me, and I encroached upon my beloved goatee.

I have had a goatee since I was 15 (so did the rest of my class at school, we're Lebanese remember). I, however, have remained attached to it ever since. I have shaved it off completely perhaps twice in the intervening years. I feel completely defenseless without it. Friends, colleagues and even club bouncers have mocked the new me.

Hoping the one-week beard will start to show soon.

Thank you for your support in this most trying of times.

Hilarious DUI

Flash Fiction

Since I will be posting some of my fiction writing up here soon, I thought it might be useful to share some explanations of the various genres. Today's lesson, boys and girls, is flash fiction. Below is a blatantly copy/pasted explanation form our dear friends at Wikipedia.

Flash fiction, also called "sudden fiction," "micro fiction," "postcard fiction" or "short-short fiction," is a sub-genre of the short story characterized by limited word length. There is no "official" or exact word limit, but flash-fiction stories are generally less than 2,000 words long, and tend to cluster in the 250- to 1,000-word range. "Traditional" short stories range from 2,000 to upwards of 20,000 words in length, and tend to cluster in the 3,000- to 10,000-word range. A good rule of thumb is that a short story (flash or traditional) is meant to be read in one sitting, unlike a novella or a novel.

Flash fiction differs from vignettes in that the works contain the classic story elements: protagonist, conflict, obstacles or complications, and resolution. However, unlike a traditional short story, the limited word length often forces some of these elements to be unwritten, that is, hinted at or implied in the written storyline. Ernest Hemingway's six-word flash, "For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn." illustrates this principle taken to the extreme.

Flash fiction has roots going back to Aesop's Fables, and practitioners have included Bolesław Prus, Anton Chekhov, O. Henry, Franz Kafka and Ray Bradbury. The Internet has brought new life to flash fiction with its demands for short, concise works. Ezines are a ready market for flash-fiction works; however, many print magazines publish them as well. Some markets that specialize in flash fiction include SmokeLong Quarterly and Vestal Review.

One type of flash fiction is the short story with an exact word count. An example is 55 Fiction or Nanofiction. These are complete stories, with at least one character and a discernible plot, exactly 55 words long. Another is the Drabble, named after Phil Drabble, exactly 100 words, excluding titles. Storybytes.com is a web site and email newsletter with stories whose lengths are powers of 2.

The Da Vinci Code

Much like the rest of the pop-culture obsessed Western world, I have been anticipating the release of the Da Vinci Code movie for a while. Actually, I've been envisaging the film since I put the ever-so-readable book down in 2003. When I heard Tom Hanks would be Robert Langdon, I cringed. Quite why this choice was made is beyond me. Then I saw his mullet, and my consternation turned to anger.

I got to see the film on Saturday evening. And fell asleep approximately three times during the two and a half hour ordeal. The exciting novel that reads like a movie has been made into a movie that views as a rather tedious novel. Tom Hanks looks bemused throughout. Tautou's frenchness is supremely annoying; she just needed a beret and a baguette under her arm. Jean Reno plays the role with the exact same tone he's used in every film I've seen him in. Sir Ian McKellen provides a welcome flurry of genius in his scenes, probably the film's only redeeming feature.

The Catholic Church needn’t worry about this film distorting the faithful's views of Christianity. Dan Brown and Ron Howard are to theology what Paolo Coelho is to philosophy. Nothing special.

Useless fact: Words

The English-language alphabet originally had only 24 letters. One missing letter was J, which was the last letter to be added to the alphabet. The other latecomer to the alphabet was U.

"Fan" is an abbreviation for the word "fanatic." Toward the turn of the 19th century, various media referred to football enthusiasts first as "football fanatics," and later as a "football fan."

The proper name of our sole natural satellite is "the Moon" and therefore...it should be capitalized. The 60-odd natural satellites of other planets, however are called "moons" (in lower case) because each has been given a proper name, such as Deimos, Amalthea, Hyperion, Miranda, Larissa, or Charon.

The word "snorkel" comes from the German word "schnoerkel", which was a tube used by German submarine crews in WW2. The subs used an electric battery when traveling underwater, which had to be recharged using diesel engines, which needed air to run. To avoid the hazard of surfacing to run the engines, the Germans used the schnoerkel to feed air from the surface into the engines.

The name "fez" is Turkish for "Hat".

The combination "ough" can be pronounced in nine different ways. The following sentence contains them all: "A rough-coated, dough-faced, thoughtful plough man strode through the streets of Scarborough; after falling into a slough, he coughed and hiccoughed."

"The verb "cleave" is the only English word with two synonyms which are antonyms of each other: adhere and separate.

"Jerkwater" is a railroad term. Until about fifty years ago, most trains were pulled by thirsty steam engines that needed to refill their boilers from water towers next to the tracks. But some towns were so small and inconsequential that they lacked a water tower. When trains stopped in those places, the crew had to find a nearby stream or well and, bucket-brigade style, "jerk" the water to the train. Those little dots on the map became known as jerkwater towns.

Malcolm Lowry had pnigophobia—the fear of choking on fish bones.

Augustus Caesar had achluophobia—the fear of sitting in the dark.

Androphobia is a fear of men.

Caligynephobia is a fear of beautiful women.

Pentheraphobia is a fear of a mother-in-law.

Scopophobia is a fear of being looked at.

Phobophobia is a fear of fearing.

Mageiricophobia is the intense fear of having to cook.

Papaphobia is the fear of Popes.

Taphephobia is the fear of being buried alive.

Clinophobia is the fear of beds.

Incredible means not believable. Incredulous means not believing. When someone's story is truly incredible, you ought to be incredulous.

The terms "prime minister," "premier" and "chancellor" all refer to the leading minister of a government, and any differences from nation to nation stem from different systems of government, not from title definitions.

Tennis pro Evonne Goolagong's last name means "kangaroo's nose" in Australia's aboriginal language.

A "sysygy" occurs when all the planets of the our Solar System line up.

The most common letters in the English language are R S T L N E. Sound familiar? Watch an episode of "Wheel of Fortune"...

A "necropsy" is an autopsy on animals.

EEG stands for Electroencephalogram.

The English word pajamas has it's origin in Persian. It is a combination of the Persian words pa (leg) and jamah (garment).

The ZIP in zip code stands for "Zone Improvement Plan."

Yucatan, as in the peninsula, is from Maya "u" + "u" + "uthaan" meaning "listen how they speak," and is what the Maya said when they first heard the Spaniards.

Punctuation was not invented until the 1500's.

"Catch 22" has come to mean a problematic situation for which the only solution is denied by a circumstance inherent in the problem. The original "Catch-22," in Joseph Heller's 1961 novel of the same name, is the catch that prevents a US Air Force pilot in World War II from asking to be grounded on the basis of insanity. The pilot knows that military regulations permit insane pilots to be grounded and not forced to fly further dangerous bombing missions. However, the regulation prevents airmen from escaping bombing missions by pleading insanity by stating that any airman rational enough to WANT to be grounded cannot possibly be insane and therefore is fit to fly. From the novel: a man "would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane, he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to: but if he didn't he was sane and had to."

The custom of saying "Bless you" when someone sneezes was first used by ancients when they believed that breath was the essence of life, and when you sneeze a part of you life is escaping. Evil spirits rush into your body and occupy the empty space. By saying "God bless you" the speaker is protecting the sneezer from that spirits.

Lycanthropy is a disease in which a man thinks he's a wolf. It is the scientific name for "wolf man" or, werewolf.

"Evian" spelled backwards is naive.

Author Margaret Wolfe Hungerford, who sometimes wrote under the name "The Duchess," observed in her novel "Molly Bawn" that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder." The phrase has passed into the English language.

The "glair" is the white or clear part of an egg. The word glair comes from the Latin clarus, meaning "clear."

The longest word used by Shakespeare in any of his works is "honorificabilitudinitatibus," found in "Love's Labors Lost." Unfortunately he's no longer around to tell us what it means.

Colgate faced a big obstacle marketing toothpaste in Spanish speaking countries. Colgate translates into the command "go hang yourself."

The right side of a boat was called the starboard side due to the fact that the astronavigators used to stand out on the plank (which was on the right side) to get an unobstructed view of the stars. The left side was called the port side because that was the side that you put in on at the port. This was so that they didn't knock off the starboard.

Ever wonder where the phrase "two bits" came from? Some coins used in the American colonies before the Revolutionary War were Spanish dollars, which could be cut into pieces, or bits. Since two pieces equaled one-fourth dollar, the expression "two bits" came into being as a name for 25 cents.

Montgomery Ward was the first to advertise "Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back" in 1874 — two years after Aaron Montgomery Ward, launched his first mail-order catalog.

OK is the most successful of all Americanisms. It has invaded hundreds of other languages and been adopted by them as a word. Mencken claims that US troops deployed overseas during WWII found it already in use by Bedouins in the Sahara to the Japanese in the Pacific. It was also the fourth word spoken on the surface of the moon. It stands for oll korrect, a misspelling of all correct.

When Coca-Cola began to be sold in China, they used characters that would sound like "Coca-Cola" when spoken. Unfortunately, what they turned out to mean was "Bite the wax tadpole".

Clans of long ago that wanted to get rid of their unwanted people without killing them used to burn their houses down - hence the expression "to get fired."

Pokemon stands for "pocket monster."

The name Ethiopia mean "land of sunburned faces" in Greek.

A coward was originally a boy who took care of cows.

MAFIA is an acronym for Morte Alla Francia Italia Anela, or "Death to the French is Italy's Cry"

The Sanskrit word for "war" means "desire for more cows."

When a film is in production, the last shot of the day is the "martini shot," the next to last one is the "Abby Singer".

"Hara kiri" is an impolite way of saying the Japanese word "seppuku" which means, literally, "belly splitting."

A bird watching term: peebeegeebee = a pied-billed grebe.

"Big cheese" and "big wheel" are Medieval terms of envious respect for those who could afford to buy whole wheels of cheese at a time, an expense few could enjoy. Both these terms are often used sarcastically today.

When two words are combined to form a single word (e.g., motor + hotel = motel, breakfast + lunch = brunch) the new word is called a "portmanteau."

The slash character is called a virgule, or solidus. A URL uses slash characters, not back slash characters.

"Corduroy" comes from the French, "cord du roi" or "cloth of the king."

In the Greek alphabet "X" is the first letter for the word Christ, "Xristos." Xmas means "Christ's mass."

If you come from Manchester, you are a Mancunian.

There are six words in the English language with the letter combination "uu." Muumuu, vacuum, continuum, duumvirate, duumvir and residuum.

The abbreviation "ORD" for Chicago's O'Hare airport comes from the old name "Orchard Field."

Update on the BBC Cabbie

Turns out the gentleman was not a cabbie, but a job applicant to the BBC.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk_news/story/0,,1776030,00.html

What a legend, you have to love him.
"I just thought, "Keep going""

The BBC Cabbie

BBC falls for 'expert' cabbie's banter
By Jack Malvern
The Times - May 13th 2006

The driver was interviewed on TV after being mistaken for a specialist on music downloading

IT WAS not until midway through the live television interview that the BBC interviewer started to grow suspicious. The man whom she believed to be an expert on internet music downloads seemed to know precious little about his subject.

Not only that, but the stocky black man with the strong French accent bore little resemblance to the picture on the expert’s website, which showed a slim white man with blue eyes and blond hair.

The corporation’s News 24 channel apologised to its viewers yesterday and admitted that its interviewee was not Guy Kewney, the respected editor of Newswireless.net, but a local taxi driver.

The cabbie, who is better qualified to talk about traffic jams in Shepherds Bush, answered questions for several minutes on Apple Computer’s victory at the High Court against Apple Corps, the record label for the Beatles, The Times has learnt.

Karen Bowerman, the BBC’s consumer affairs correspondent, asked the driver what the implications were for Apple Computer, which is allowed to continue using its name and symbol for its iTunes music download service. He gave a rambling answer about how people would be able to download songs at internet cafés.

Ms Bowerman was nonplussed, but persisted. What about Apple? “I don’t know,” the driver replied. “I’m not at all sure what I’m doing here.”

It later emerged that the driver had been waiting for a client at the BBC Television Centre in West London, when a studio manager mistook him for the expert.

Confused but co-operative, he agreed to follow the manager to a studio, where he was promptly fitted with a microphone and placed in front of a camera.

Mr Kewney, meanwhile, was still waiting in reception when he saw the taxi driver being introduced under his name. “Anybody would have been fascinated to see me introduced live on air, as the expert witness in the studio,” he wrote on his weblog. “Me? Not fascinated; astonished! What would you feel, if, while you were sitting in that rather chilly reception area, you suddenly saw yourself — not sitting in reception, but live, on TV?” He added that it was especially surprising because the man, who spoke with a French accent, looked nothing like him. “I’m not black. I’m not-black on a startling scale; I’m fair-haired, blue-eyed, prominent-nosed, and with the sort of pale skin that makes my dermatologist wince each time I complain about an itchy mole.”

He was amused at first, but realised that anyone watching would think he knew next to nothing about Apple Computer, online music or The Beatles.

When the driver was asked how the interview went, he replied: “Well, it was OK, but I was a bit rushed.”

He had been waiting at reception when the studio manager arrived to ask for Mr Kewney. The driver, whose visitor’s badge was marked with Mr Kewney’s name, raised his hand. According to Mr Kewney, the stage manager said: “To be honest, I did think it couldn’t be you. I mean, I’ve seen your picture on your website, and he didn’t look like you. So I asked him who he was, and he said, ‘Guy Kewney’ and I said, ‘Are you really Guy Kewney?’ and he said, ‘Yes’.”

The driver’s sang-froid slipped only when Ms Bowerman introduced him. In a video clip, which BBC staff can access through the corporation’s Jupiter cuttings system, a moment of realisation flashes across the man’s face. “Unfortunately we did make a mistake and the wrong guest was briefly interviewed on air before we cut to our reporter,” a spokeswoman said. “We apologise to viewers for any confusion.”

It is not the first time that the BBC has been embarrassed by a case of mistaken identity. Last year Rhodri Morgan, the First Minister of Wales, was mistaken for a cast member of Doctor Who when he was due to appear on the BBC Wales political show Dragon’s Eye.

Becoming Lebanese: A step-by-step guide.

Ladies and gentlemen, following this exclusive online guide is a sure-fire way to be mistaken for a Leb.

Driving
The driver’s seat must be in an uncomfortable and impractical reclined position at all times. No more than one hand shall be on the wheel at any time. The other hand should be on the window frame. Alternatively it may be located on the gear-shift or your girlfriend’s leg. Profuse use of horn is encouraged. Religious symbols are to be attached to dashboard at will. Shiny rims and tinted windows, accompanied by thinly veiled threats to fellow motorists on your back window are commonplace.

Clothes
Shirts are never to be tucked in. A minimum of three buttons must be undone to reveal chest hair and optional gold medallion. Brand names, preferably fake, are to be exposed on every visible area of clothing. Jeans and shiny loafers are required to complete the look, along with a generous helping of Brylcreem.

Technology
Ownership of mobile phones released more than two months ago are a big no-no. Be sure to keep your phone visible at all times. Keep it in your hand and place it on the table during diner or coffee. Fiddle around with the menu at all times, to seem like you are always being pursued by serial text-messagers.

Dining
The point of dining is not to eat. It is to see and be seen. Make no mistake. Talk loudly, be rude to staff. Never, ever, under any circumstances, thank your waiter. Throw evil looks at neighbouring tables, whether you know them or not. Laugh audibly, just so everyone knows you’re having more fun than them. Crack out a cheap cigar, even if you’re 18, to project a clichéd 80s image of wealth.

Clubbing
You must pull up at the door in a shiny new car. Whether it’s yours is inconsequential. Call bouncer ‘habibe’ a couple of times, and crack lame joke whilst tapping him on shoulder. Demonstrate rudeness to staff (see Dining). Act like you own the place. Order recklessly, and cry later. Throw evil looks at neighbouring tables (see Dining again). Shake fist in the air as substitute for actual dancing. Push that guy who dared look at your girlfriend. Drunk drive to the nearest Zaatar w Zeit, get in a fight with someone over a parking space. Order food.

Cinema
Again, the purpose of the cinema is not a love of film. It is to waste two hours of time, and annoy a great deal of people simultaneously. Have loudly whispered conversations on your phone during parts of the film integral to the plot. Throw popcorn at neighbouring seats. Laugh in all the wrong places. Make inappropriate comments during tense scenes. Applaud good guys who punch a baddie.

Language
Arabic is not the official language of Lebanon, forget what you’ve been told. You will need to master the bastard language that is frenglishabic. Use at least three languages in every conversation, introducing the ones you master the least only for greetings and partings (hola, ciao, …)

Manners
What-now?

Politics
Chose one of a plethora of local, petty leaders. Adore them. Place their pictures on your car, balcony and other visible areas that may come under your ownership. Follow them blindly, regardless of how racist, irrational and frightening they are.

Education
University is not a place to learn. It is a vast social club, where one must adorn one’s entire wardrobe on a daily basis to attract potential mates. Class attendance is inversely proportional to the amount of sunshine on any particular day. Be just as flashy on campus as you would be in a club. Try to get your degree before failing every course four times.


Spend money you don’t have, to buy things you don’t need, to impress people you don’t like.
Ahla, bienvenue to our world habibe/habibte.

The Urban Ninja

Check out this video. Some crazy skills from suburban American kids with Samurai roots.

Mr Miagi would be proud. Wax on, wax off Daniel San.

Star Trek Cribs

Check out this video of Spock chillin with his homies at his dope Crib (I'm not quite down with the lingo, as it were). It's tight. Fo shizzle.

Eurotrash

(oxi-moron) One whose effortlessly impeccable style, tasteful understated elegance, and continent-hopping savoire vivre, is manifested in one's daily presentation---including, but not limited to: choice of words (few and articulate; loudness only permitted for Italians...from Italy, not Jersey); multilingual accent (reflecting upbringing by French nanny, German-Swiss headmaster at boarding school in St. Moritz, and a touch of "ivy-league American" from countless summers at parent's Easthampton residence and study period at Brown);choice of clothing (at least 3 pieces orchestrated in natural fabrics of varying textures and varying coordinated colours--but not varying quality--only the finest, bien sur); places frequented (ultra-modern Ian Schrager hang-outs, gourmet shops, 'historical districts', museum cafes, etc.; not Starbucks; never shopping malls); lack of familiarity with cheap,disposable pop-culture ('Britney who?'); and of course, a command of the "I-don't-know-what": loafers without socks; cigarette smoked like '40's film star; collars on polo shirts turned upwards; selects unadvertised fragrances; almost entirely void of visible logos (exceptions:family crest or personal monogram; crocodile, polo player, and "G")employs the 'kiss on either cheek' greeting. The word Eurotrash should only be used on the west side of 'the pond' and in relation to the bland, Puritan, mass-marketed,shrink-wrapped, petit-bourgeois style rampant in America.

Farewell

My grandfather passed away this afternoon. He is survived by three wonderful daughters, one of whom is my mother. I’m glad that I’m in Beirut to be there for her. I wouldn’t normally write something about this on my blog, since I feel outward expressions of grief are a superficial call for pity. This isn’t about that. I think I’ve been blocking the reality of his passing, because it’s something too difficult to comprehend. This is just my way of dealing with it. He had a full life; he served his country and his family proudly. I resent the war and my family’s exile for having robbed me of childhood memories with him. I won’t attend the funeral tomorrow, because the military send off will be too much for me to stand. I’m glad I’ve written these few words. They’ve allowed me to cry. And I thank you for reading them with me. May he rest in peace.

way of the ninja

al-aurans says:
seriously
al-aurans says:
i honestly don't get the point of going clubbing if you already have a gf or have no intention of scoring
Rambo says:
its a way of life
Rambo says:
like ninjas
al-aurans says:
ninja isn't a way of life. you only become a ninja at night
al-aurans says:
which is why they wear pyjamas
al-aurans says:
now piracy
al-aurans says:
that's a way of life

Quotes on Writing

There are two kinds of writer: those that make you think, and those that make you wonder.
- Brian Aldiss

Have something to say, and say it as clearly as you can. That is the only secret.
- Matthew Arnold

The only thing I was fit for was to be a writer, and this notion rested solely on my suspicion that I would never be fit for real work, and that writing didn't require any.
- Russell Baker

A best seller was a book which somehow sold well simply because it was selling well.
- S. Boorstein

Everybody walks past a thousand story ideas every day. The good writers are the ones who see five or six of them. Most people don't see any.
- Orson Scott Card

The spirit of creation is the spirit of contradiction. It is the breakthrough of appearances toward an unknown reality.
- Joan Cocteau

People on the outside think there's something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn't like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, and that's all there is to it.
- Harlan Ellison

I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.
- Gustave Flaubert

Half of being smart is knowing what you're dumb at.
- David Gerrold

Prose is architecture, not interior decoration.
- Ernest Hemingway

A writer never has a vacation. For a writer life consists of either writing or thinking about writing.
- Eugene Ionesco

Having been unpopular in high school is not just cause for book publication.
- Fran Lebowitz

The author must keep his mouth shut when his work starts to speak.
- Frederich Nietzsche

When we see a natural style we are quite amazed and delighted, because we expected to see an author and find a man.
- Blaise Pascal

Poetry creates the myth, the prose writer draws its portrait.
- Jean-Paul Sartre

Writing is thinking on paper.
- William Zinsser

It's all about starting early

I've always had an interest in reading and writing, as evidenced by this photo of me reading my Sunday papers. Throughout the years, I've learnt a lot from newspapers. Once I got them the right way up, naturally.

Big Cat

The Jaguar E-type is probably one of the finest motoring machines known to man. So, I've decided to share some information about this beautiful beast.

The E-type was initially designed and shown to the public as a grand tourer in two seater coupé form (FHC or Fixed Head Coupe) and as convertible (OTS or Open Two Seater). The 2+2 version with a lengthened wheelbase was released several years later.
The model was made in 3 distinct versions generally referred to as "Series 1", "Series 2" and "Series 3". A transitional series between Series 1 and Series 2 is known unofficially as "Series 1½".

In addition, several limited-edition variants were produced:
- The "'Lightweight' E-Type" which was apparently intended as a sort of follow-up to the D-type. Jaguar planned to produce 18 units but ultimately only a dozen were reportedly built. Of those, one is known to have been destroyed and two others have been converted to coupé form. These are exceedingly rare and sought by collectors.
- The "Low Drag Coupé" which was a one-off technical exercise which was ultimately sold to a Jaguar racing driver. It is presently believed to be part of the private collection of the current Viscount Cowdray.

Lazy

Greetings weblings
I have to recognize that I haven't been updating my blog as regularly as I'd want to. This is due to the fact that my flat has been a construction site for the better part of two weeks, and I can't really find a place to sit and write. Well, the good news is it's almost done. So I promise some prolific blogging this weekend. Get ready for some very pointless entries.

Nas

The Quarterlife

(You can also read this entry on Musa's blog at www.tariq.me.uk; but I'd rather you read it on my wonderful wonderful blog. No offense Moose. Shamless self-promotion here.)

I’ve pondered some pretty useless questions in my time. For example, if mobile phones are so dangerous on a plane, why do they let 400 people board with one in their pockets? Or how can a washing detergent get your clothes whiter than white, surely white is as white as white gets.

But occasionally, by some unexplained force of nature, I focus my attention on an issue that’s important. To some at least. In this case, I’m focusing on something I know for a fact affects a whole lot of people around me. So, through the following ill-prepared, poorly-researched assemblage of words, I’ll try to bring solace to you all. I’ll be dealing with the quarterlife crisis. “What the hell is this?” I hear you grumble into your Saturday morning coffee. Let me explain.

Most of us are aware of the midlife crisis. This is the age when most people’s fathers, who have been balding for a few years and watching their midsection grow exponentially over their exasperated Dunhill belts, purchase a sports coupe and run after leggy blondes called Svetlana. The quarterlife crisis, on the other hand, is an altogether different affair. As the name indicates, it hits us in our mid to late 20s. And it mostly doesn’t involve balding or shiny red sports cars.

"What the hell do I do? Is there anyone else who can relate? What is my passion? Will I ever meet the One" are among the perturbed questions on www.quarterlifecrisis.com. With 10,000 registered users and 1 million hits per month, it's a place to meet, gripe and help each other out. Characteristics of the crisis include: confusion of identity, insecurity regarding the near future, insecurity regarding present accomplishments, re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships, disappointment with one's job, nostalgia for college life, tendency to hold stronger opinions, boredom with social interactions, financially-rooted stress and loneliness. I know, I know. Reading the list was a comfort to me too. It’s nice to know you’re not the only one out there. It’s also the first step to emerging from these feelings.

Entering the real world can be a daunting undertaking, and no one makes it easy for you. Life at university is a breeze. Social interaction is facilitated within the confines of the campus. Feedback on your work is regular. Once you are thrown out of this little utopian hippy-fest, you find a world full of backstabbing and office politics. You might have a job you like, but lack the security of knowing you’re going to keep it regardless of performance. You can buy any gadget you want, but you have to watch your overdraft. Life in the early 21st century is a bizarre and disorientating cocktail of extreme comfort and insecurity.

As with every human ailment, imaginary or otherwise, this one has spawned a series of self-help books. A quick browse through amazon.com and you’ll find “Conquering Your Quarterlife Crisis: Advice from Twentysomethings Who Have Been There and Survived." Like all self-help books, this is a load of useless clichés. The only thing this books helps to do is prop up a wobbly table. The quarterlife crisis is a rite of passage. We’re all bound to go through it. The questions and regrets it fills us with can be constructive. Re-evaluation can be healthy. So can nostalgia for college life. The good times you had back then can be recreated till you physically cant get up to boogie anymore. It just takes a bit more willpower.


“When I found him in Mill City that morning he had fallen on the beat and evil days that come to young guys in their middle twenties” - Jack Kerouac.

“Well, 23 is old! It's almost 25 which is almost mid-twenties.” – Jessica “The Brain” Simpson

Divine Favor

Something struck me the other day, as I was watching archive footage of Slobodan Milosevic, some people are mind-bogglingly charismatic. I mean, this man was referred to as the Butcher of the Balkans, yet his presence on screen is magnetic. How scary.
Some research into charisma was called for. A few clicks later and I discover that to the early Greeks, charisma was said to be "a divine favor/gift" or "gift of grace," implying that this 'divine quality' was an inborn trait. The source of this is Wikipedia, so it is probably inaccurate. But nevertheless, this was all very interesting. The article was even illustrated by a picture of Bill Clinton and his dog. I'm supposing they were implying Bill was the charismatic one.

Even renowned sociologists have seen charisma as some sort of superhuman trait. Max Weber defined charismatic authority to be one of three forms of authority, the other two being traditional (feudal) authority and legal or rational authority. According to Weber, charisma is defined as "a certain quality of an individual personality, by virtue of which s/he is 'set apart' from ordinary people and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities. These as such are not accessible to the ordinary person, but are regarded as divine in origin or as exemplary, and on the basis of them the individual concerned is treated as a leader."

Conventional wisdom would have us break presidents and politicians down along party lines, but the real divide, in the public imagination and history books, is the gulf between charismatic maestros and bland statesmen.

One of the shadier sides of charm is the development of a cult of personality. Cult of personality is a term for what is perceived to be excessive adulation of a single living leader, especially a head of state. The term was coined by the General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party Nikita Khrushchev in his 1956 "Secret Speech" denouncing Joseph Stalin to the 20th Party Congress. Personality cults are usually an ailment reserved for totalitarian, authoritarian, or highly traditional societies, especially those with a strong revolutionary consciousness. The reputation of a single leader, often characterized as the "liberator" or "savior" of the people, elevates that leader to a near-divine level. Lack of education amongst the populations is very conducive to this, since degree-holders are usually less entranced by megalomania.

A charismatic leader acts as a link, allowing you to give in to the giddy togetherness of a peace rally or a game of football. You forget yourself in his company and climb into the palm of his hand. Of course, for every breathtakingly charismatic individual, there is an antithesis. A charisma black hole, if you will. The most shining examples in my book are the grumbling, dishevelled British Chancellor Gordon Brown and presidential candidate John Kerry, the human lullaby. I would feel no giddiness climbing into their respective palms.

A Year On

It has been a year since the massive protests in Beirut. Cedar Revolution, Intifada of Independence, call it what you will. A lot of us have become very disillusioned over the past year though, as we've seen the country slide back into petty arguments and deal-making. This isn't a political blog, so that's all I'll say and I'll leave you with two sobering quotes .

"Apparently, a democracy is a place where numerous elections are held at great cost without issues and with interchangeable candidates." - Gore Vidal

"Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedies" - Groucho Marx

Bukowski

Morning everyone. This entry is meant as an answer to people who like the title of my blog. I cannot, sadly, take credit for it. It is the title of a collection of short stories by Beat poet Charles Bukowski. Here's a little bio I took from the Academy of American Poets' website (www.poets.org).

Charles Bukowski was born in Andernach, Germany on August 16, 1920, the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.

Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His writing often featured a depraved metropolitan environment, downtrodden members of American society, direct language, violence, and sexual imagery, and many of his works center around a roughly autobiographical figure named Henry Chinaski. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (Black Sparrow, 1994), Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters 1960-1970 (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992). He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.

The Globalization of Clubbing

The only explosions you’ll hear in Lebanon this weekend, are the booms and bangs accompanying the latest purchase of human-sized bottles of champagne at uber-club Crystal. The Lebanese capital has reclaimed its reputation as party capital of the Middle East since the end of the Civil War. Simultaneously, a couple of thousand miles away, revellers will be flocking to London’s West End nightclubs to dance away their mortgages.

Each city has its very unique clubbing dynamic. Beirut, for example, is a city where couples go out clubbing. Paris is the same. People in London will look at you like you’re some freak of nature if you go clubbing with a significant other. “What’s the point of it”, they’ll say.

On any day, Beirut is a city awash in the opulence of post-war excess. Conspicuous display of wealth is the norm. You don’t even have to be wealthy either. Actually, the less wealth you have the more you’re likely to want to prove you’re Lebanon’s answer to Onasis. In London, such decadent behaviour is frowned upon in society at large. But once you cross the velvet ropes and enter the one of its members clubs, of varying degrees of trashiness, the equation changes. Sparklers accompany champagne and so on.

The similarities don’t end there. The anthropological dynamic between attractive young women and wealthy old gentlemen is present everywhere. As my friend Lawrence says, “It's like watching the Discovery Channel but the experience is far more visceral”. However, certain differences remain. Spraying champagne is a big no-no in London. While this is happily done in St Tropez and Beirut, spraying the bubbly in London will get you kicked out of a club. As I witnessed last week in Pangaea, which is a place described by one reviewer as being on the “trashy side of exclusive”. That’s probably why I like it.

Crystal is Beirut’s answer of the Jermyn Street temple of glitz, glam and money: Tramp. Filled with beautiful women and men, the theme of this nightclub is champagne and the clients buy it by the magnum. Names are shouted out over the microphone, to acknowledge every hole burnt in every pocket. I’ve heard stories of people renting bottles, or getting store credit to purchase them. I think these people miss the point of clubbing. It’s about your friends, the music, feeling a vibe and sponging off the unique human energy these places contain. It’s not about one-upmanship.

It’s nothing surprising really. The Lebanese spend money they don’t have, to buy things they don’t need, to impress people they don’t like. Maybe it’s not a purely Lebanese characteristic. Maybe we are just the caricature-like extreme, and this is a more widespread ill.

Of course, no trawl of Beirut’s clubs is complete without a late visit to world famous crypt-like nightclub BO18. This is probably our equivalent of Fabric or Turnmills. It’s a debauched and decadent club, for the hardcore of Beirut’s clubbing fraternity the music is techno and tribal house. The roof is regularly opened up to reveal the stars. The fleeting glimpse of the dawning sunlight on the horizon is usually a pretty good indication that you should be heading home.

I don’t know if you noticed, but I feel a need to compare clubs. As if feeling that Tramp is similar to Crystal will mean a 3-hour trip to one will feel like I’ve crossed the Mediterranean magically to savour the delights of the city I miss.

I used to think Lebanon was an abhorrent example of superficiality gone crazy. Some sort of all-day, all-night orgy of amnesia designed to forget years of war and bloodshed. After three years back in London, however, I realize this place is just as vain and the people just as needy the redeeming solace of a plush club overflowing with beautiful people. Welcome to the globalization of sparklers and redemption.

(How ironic that I should be writing this an hour before I head off to the West End)

Ode to the Designer Plastic Bag

Ok. So today I'm cheating. I've been busy dealing with the construction site that my apartment has become over the past week. So I'm posting a poem I wrote for a Post-modern American Poetry class I took a few years ago when I was at AUB. Enjoy. Or not. :)

By the way: You can look forward to my review of London and Beirut clubbing tomorrow. Its quite the anthropological piece. It has Money, Sex and Power. Goodie. You'll be able to read it here or on my friend Musa's blog (www.tariq.me.uk)

Note: The weird structure of the poem is intentional. It isn't your web browser playing mind games with you. It's something about structure influencing the reading of it. Or something. It was a while ago. (This note was in response to Ghadi calling me a technologically incapable buffoon)

Ode to the Designer Plastic Bag

Prada intoxication

Alone,

all you can buy

handbags.

blend of

glossy

magazine scents,

aroma of

heavenly-priced coffee

freshly

upholstered interiors,

whiff of compassion.

luminous

metal,

blinds

beautifully

the

clap

pit

ty

clap

of heels ricochets against the

gleaming

window-fronts,

perfectly

groomed

devotees

trot the street

Intoxicated

Alone.

Counting Sheep

The record for the longest period without it is 18 days, 21 hours, 40 minutes. A new baby typically results in 400-750 hours less of it for parents in the first year. The 1989 Exxon Valdez oil spill off Alaska, the Challenger space shuttle disaster and the Chernobyl nuclear accident have all been attributed to human errors in which deprivation from it played a role. What am I talking about? No, not that you perverts. Pff. It's sleep. Glorious, wonderful sleep.

Why do I bring up this most random of topics? Well, it was my intention to submit a blog entry last night. However, I awoke this morning to find myself on my living room couch. Exhaustion and the relentlessly miserable winter months have caused me to fall asleep like a baby at the ungodly hour of 8pm. Hence: no blog entry.

As it is my unwavering duty to provide you with a daily dose of my non-sensical babblings, I thought I should concoct a quick blog entry whilst on my Tube ride to work. What better subject than sleep, I thought to myself. Rather than bore you with details of various stages of sleep and dream interpretation, I'll tell you about a friend of mine.

This friend, who shall remain unnamed (anyone who knows him will recognize him instantly), has the most amazing ability to sleep in any environment. He is famous in London for having been kidnapped by Morpheus (Greek god of dreams and sleep - sorry for the condescending explanation) on the most improbable of occasions. He has fallen asleep on pretty much every single one of his friends' couches. I think he considers this some sort of rite of passage in his relationship with people. He has even caught a few z's in a number of London's top clubs.

On one particularly eventful night, said friend (some of you have figured out who it is by now) was dancing away on the chaved-out dance-floor/whore-house of happening London venue Mo*vida to the beats of the latest misogynistic Hip Hop offering. When I turn to say something to him, the most splendid of views was offered to me. He'd fallen asleep. Standing up. In the middle of a dance floor. Granted, he had some sort of structural/decorative column to rest on, but still. This man must have been the most sleep-deprived individual I know, or the laziest. I'll let him decide. Actually, I'll get him to comment on this piece.

If you're wondering, the facts at the beginning of the story are brought to you by the Australian National Sleep Research Project. What is the most troubling of their experts' findings? One of the most alluring sleep distractions is 24-hour accessibility to the internet. God save us all.

Cedar Envy

I have recently reached the ripe old age of 23. This means I have to deal with the usual quarterlife crisis issues. For those of you gleefully unacquainted with the symptoms, they include (but are in no way confined to): insecurity regarding the near future, insecurity regarding present accomplishments, re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships, nostalgia for college life, boredom with social interactions, financially-rooted stress and loneliness. Being Lebanese in London, I have the honour of adding an identity crisis to the list.

Lebanon has been a diasporic nation for the better part of a century. Wave after wave of people have left its sunny shores and snowy mountain tops (insert Ministry of Tourism cliché about swimming and skiing in same day here) to find better, safer or more lucrative lives abroad. Lebanese migration isn’t merely a product of the tragic civil war, it goes back much further. We are a nation of impatient, excitable little children. We like exploring and selling stuff to people too much to stay in our tiny little piece of land. As always, I will quote someone more eloquent than myself. In this particular case it is a great Lebanese exile, Amine Maalouf, who has made me so jealous by hitting the nail smack-bang on the head: “We all love Lebanon, but we cultivate the passion of exile”.

The Lebanese are in no way unique in their diaspora, although we love to think we are. Diasporas are the product of large-scale migration and nation-state formation in the 19^th and 20^th centuries. Emigration has resulted in cross-generational dispersal of people and introduced them to new cultures and states. It is faced with this novelty that a sense of diasporic belonging evolves (I promise to keep the academic nonsense to a minimum). I only listen to Haifa, watch LBC or eat Fattoush when I’m London. This makes me Lebanese here. The second I’m back in Beirut, I can’t stand the sound of anything vaguely Lebanese. It’s what I call selective patriotism.

Now, I grew up in London. I’m British. But I’m also very Lebanese. I have always felt a sense of attachment to that country, even though I only lived there for 6 years (which roughly translates as 5 car accidents, there’s a conversion table somewhere). What I’ve noticed in most post-colonial societies, is that when you emigrate, you tend to go back to your old colonizer. Just look at Algerians in France, Indians and Pakistanis in the UK and so on. By that logic, I should have ended up in France. Many of my friends and family ended up there, but I got lost along the way. I can assure you it was not my penchant for drizzle which attracted me here.

So in London, I am Lebanese and I am a minority. My friends here are Palestinian, Kuwaiti, Jordanian, Saudi. The only vestige of my colonized ancestry is my French schooling. Followed by American and British universities, classic trajectory for your average Lebanese male. I feel out of place here sometimes. I feel the need to cross the Channel to get a taste of some Parisian rudeness and laziness. I need to feel part of the community of Lebanese there, which includes some of my closest friends. I also feel the need to spend all my holidays back in Lebanon. You can never dissociate yourself from the place. There’s always that nagging question at the back of your mind: ‘When should I go back? When can I? Do I want to?’ In a sense, I think Lebanon is like an ex-girlfriend. You had a great time together, but you grew apart. But sometimes, just sometimes, when its dark and raining and you feel depressed, you have the absurd idea that it might be a good idea to get back together. And it never works out. You get over each other, but you can still have coffee from time to time.

As Real As It Gets. Innit.

I have had an admittedly elitist approach to reality television.

In the past, I have looked down upon fans of the genre with a generous amount of disdain and a smidgen of pity. However, the continued (and mind-boggling) success of these shows has led me to revaluate my, now admittedly unreasonable, stance.

Reality TV has rapidly come to occupy a place at the forefront of contemporary culture on a global scale, just ask the winner of Pinoy Big Brother in the Philippines. Some say the genre was initiated by the now stale-looking Candid Camera. Oh, how things have changed. No reality show worth its salt would have less than 16 contestants battling out in a house equipped with 500 cameras and 14000 microphones nowadays.

There are academic as well as more general debates on the subject of reality TV. I’m not familiar with either in any great depth, as I spend most of my time watching reruns of Friends on E4, so please do not expect any life-changing history-making judgements from me. However some of these issues are pretty straightforward. Hell, even I got them.

A few decades ago, it was easy for a lot of people to gossip about their neighbours. (‘Ooh, did you hear about Maureen and the plumber. Oooh’)
However, in the 21st century, most of us would be hard-pressed giving a description of our neighbours to the police, contenting ourselves with ‘He was a very quiet guy, always polite’ if he turns out to be a mass murderer. So gossiping about what some camp hairdresser from Romford is doing to his fellow housemates on television seems like an appropriate substitute.

Of course, reality TV is also a representation of wider social phenomena. In the post-9/11 world we are all very conscious of the surveillance that now takes place in most Western societies. So wanting to do some surveillance of our own seems like a sort of new natural inclination. We are also in an age where the construction of celebrity and the importance of fandom are more prevalent than ever before. Couple this with new technologies (which aren’t so brand spanking new anymore, but still…) such as texting and the internet, and Big Brother was bound to take off.

I also never realized, in my old pompous ways, that the politics of representation are key in these programs. Minorities are often fairly represented in a very real way in the genre (hence the name, I guess). Contestants from immigrant communities are as present as any other. Women can assume any role they want; they don’t have a male-written script to adhere to. Gays and transsexuals have a forum to express themselves, with less fear of being judged or discriminated against. People from lower income categories can become heroes to people from their own communities, who are the ones voting for them. For proof, just take a look at the newest Princess of Chav, Chantelle.

The French writer Frederic Beigbeder says it best: “The viewing public has been humiliated. Will they get revenge? Yes: by applauding the latest Big Brother winner louder than they applaud Nicole Kidman”. They are applauding themselves, so its quite understandable.

You Are Not Your Blahniks

Over the past few years I have come to a resounding realization. Women care about two things: chocolate and ‘Sex and the City’.

The former I have no issue with, being quite partial to the occasional Twix bar myself. However, the latter makes my blood boil and here’s why.

The HBO show aired from 1998 to 2004, and followed the lives of three successful thrity-somethings and one forty-something (see, I have watched it, so my ire isn’t baseless). Carrie Bradshaw and her three best girlfriends trudge through the chaotic landscape of singledom and female sexual activity in the new millennium in New York. The show features every swanky bar you can think of in the Big Apple. How 17 year old girls in Beirut relate to this is still beyond me. I digress.

One of the shows main objectives was to break taboos about sex and single women. Which is to be applauded. The taboos it breaks though, only bring up clichéd perceptions of independent sexuality in the 21st century.


My problem with the show, much like my problem with Cosmo (which Musa seems to love for some reason), is that it not only perpetuates clichés but creates new ones for women to follow. Surely this whole business of women needing a closet full of shoes is, in part, a concoction of this evil show. Women can apparently find happiness in the perfect pair of Blahniks or Choos (Manolo and Jimmy, and their bankers, will undoubtedly not share my dislike for the show). Nonsense. This is materialism gone wild. Bradshaw summarizes it all: "I like my money right where I can see it - hanging in my closet." No comment.

Don’t get me wrong. It is often an entertaining half hour. The cast is very likeable. The women are very attractive, and I would have no quibbles being involved in any episode (although my lack of hunky good looks might be an issue).The settings are enjoyable. But it’s a soap opera, ladies. Not a divine message. This isn’t something to live by. This doesn’t define your womanhood. I think it says more about the show’s writers, who are statistically in majority gay, than it does about women. The plot is often superficial, and Carrie’s supposedly deep thoughts for her weekly column are trite and laughable at times.

When I hear friends say ‘Oh my God, I’m like so like Carrie’, I can’t help but audibly sigh. Just like when friends say ‘Like oh my God I’m like so like Chandler’ (please let me indulge in this caricature of my friends- and no, they’re not teenage Americans). They’re not like anyone. These are sitcoms and soap operas. You are not like Carrie. You are not like Chandler. You are yourselves. I, for example, am a tall somewhat geeky Lebanese man. I can’t relate to a New York socialite with matinee-idol looks and no credit limit. And I’m proud of it.

So don’t take relationship advice from a bunch of overpaid actors, take it from your friends and follow your intuition. Be your wonderful unique self. I’m sure you’re far more interesting than any of these one-dimensional characters.

To paraphrase Tyler Durden in Fight Club:

You are not your Blahniks. You are not your Cosmos.

(Oh, and you want a decent HBO series? Go watch Curb Your Enthusiasm. Now that’s genius.)

And so it begins...

Greetings,

I've been saying I want to write since I was, oh let's say, five. So, having posted a couple of blog entries on a friend's site and gotten positive feedback, I've decided my fears that I will be publicly judged and ridiculed were unfounded (fingers crossed).

The first two posts are the aforementioned posted-on-a-friends-blog pieces. Because I'm lazy that way. Expect more judgmental scribblings to come very soon.